


A Small Sacrifice

by Just_Another_Day



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 03:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20400961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Another_Day/pseuds/Just_Another_Day
Summary: The loss of a brother was something far more deeply personal. In their culture, there was only one acceptable way to mourn that.





	A Small Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to convince the Capri discord that this could be a thing that would happen for at least a week now. About time I put my typing fingers where my mouth is. Sorry to the long-haired Nik fans out there.
> 
> Also written (loosely) for the 'Grabbed by the Hair' square of my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.

The day the message arrived, Nikandros spent the better part of the day in utter disbelief tinged with anger. At best this had to be a mistake. Nikandros suspected it was actually a ploy instead. After all, the messenger had been sent straight from Kastor. As Nikandros had tried to convince Damen so many times now, Kastor could hardly be trusted at his word.

It was only when the countless corroborating accounts started rolling in the following morning that Nikandros could even start contemplating that it might be the truth.

Nikandros had been half-expecting to hear about the passing of the King for weeks now, to the point that Nikandros had even been making preparations to journey south so that he could be there for Damianos if and when the worst finally happened. He wished now that he'd left for Ios weeks ago instead. Because the King's passing was far from 'the worst', as it turned out.

Nikandros might have been able to stop it, had he been there. The guilt ate at him.

The mood all throughout Marlas was sombre. They'd lost their King just as Nikandros had. But they didn't feel it as keenly.

Nor did they have the same man in mind when they thought of 'their King'.

King Theomedes he would honour at the official procession from Ios to the Kingsmeet, along with all the other kyroi and the potentially thousands of their countrymen who would converge on the capital.

The loss of a brother was something far more deeply personal. In their culture, there was only one acceptable way to mourn that. It was expected. But even if it hadn't been, Nikandros would have insisted upon it. Damianos deserved at least that much of a sacrifice from him.

Nikandros didn't even have to give the order. His staff knew him well. When he entered the baths, the rug was already laid out on the marble. A bowl of water and a bar of soap sat to one side, while a set of shears and a bronze razor were lined up perfectly to the right. Nikandros shucked his chiton and knelt naked on the rug, his legs folded underneath him so that he sat on his heels.

A mirror rounded out the array of instruments. That was the only object he would allow any of the slaves to touch, instructing Celandine to hold it up at just the right height so that he could see himself. He hadn't bothered with his appearance at all since the first news came in, Nikandros was promptly reminded. The skin under his eyes appeared bruised. His hair was in disarray. The latter wouldn't last for long either way, but Nikandros refused to do this half-heartedly, so he ordered it remedied.

Nikandros didn't see which of the slaves stepped up behind him to comply. All the mirror showed him was sun-kissed fingers reaching forward to gather his hair. Practised hands looped his hair quickly into a ceremonial braid and tied it off.

Then Nikandros ordered all but Celandine, who was still holding the mirror as steady as she could manage, out of the room. The rest of this process he had to do himself. It was his duty. And he wanted to.

Nikandros took a tight grip on his braid, pulling it back so tightly that it hurt a little. He paid that small pain no mind. The shears felt oddly heavy as he lifted them. The metal felt cold as he slid both sides around the outside of the braid, as close to his scalp as he could manage without cutting himself.

Part of Nikandros was expecting it would be a smooth motion, closing the shears and having them slice through like a knife through butter (or like a sword through a prince startled from sleep in the dead of night and not given a chance to defend himself; Nikandros gritted his teeth). Sharp as the blades of the shears were, it took effort to hack through the thick braid. Good. Nothing about this should be easy.

When it was finally separated, Nikandros placed the thick braid in front of him, laying it carefully out in a line along the top edge of the rug and bowing slightly as he did so; an offering.

He felt physically lighter without so much hair weighing him down. Nikandros knew that his emotional state was supposed to follow suit, at least a little, by the end of this process, but he couldn't rightly claim that even the tiniest amount of his guilt or sadness had budged, and he doubted that would change any time soon. He continued anyway.

Nikandros brought cupped handfuls of water to his remaining hair. Streams of it dripped from the ragged ends and trickled down his back and chest. The soap came next, built into a lather in his now-wet hair. It would be the last time he was able to do that for a while.

He wasn't used to using the razor, since his slaves always took care of shaving him. But Nikandros didn't allow himself to hesitate at all as he brought it to his temple. He shivered at the foreign sensation of it scraping backwards in a place where he wasn't used to that, though he quickly reminded himself not to allow himself any sudden movements unless he wanted to come away with worse than the few inevitable nicks on his skin. A section of hair came away in Nikandros's hand. He could see the patch of white, lighter than the skin of his face, revealed in the mirror. Nikandros flicked the razor into the water and brought it back up to continue.

It was laborious, and sweat from the effort combined with the heat of the stones surrounding him prickled over Nikandros's body as time passed. He didn't pause for a break even so.

The back was the hardest. Nikandros couldn't see what he was doing. He had to do it mostly by feel. And the strain on his shoulders was noticeable. The last time he'd felt a sensation like this had been when he'd wrestled with Damen and ended up with his arms pinned back uncomfortably.

It took Nikandros a few seconds to realise that the salt he tasted rolling down to rest on his upper lip wasn't from beads of sweat alone. Celandine's eyes were averted in a manner befitting a properly trained slave, so she couldn't see. Even though she would never have mentioned it to a living soul, Nikandros was still thankful to be the only witness to his own tears.

Nikandros was able to draw in a deep breath to steel himself as he put the razor down. He cupped his hands in the water one last time, releasing the liquid over his head to wash away the last foam and remnants of sliced hair. His callused hand felt strange on his bare scalp. He would have to get used to that.

It was hardly the hardest thing he would have to get used to now, though.

Nikandros finally managed to stand, straight-backed, pretending his legs didn't feel numb and shaky under him as Celandine put aside the mirror and helped him pin his chiton back in place. Those tears would be the last weakness he could allow himself. Tomorrow he would board a ship that could be filled with potential spies for Kastor, and then he would be in Ios itself under Kastor's eye. Nikandros had to provide a strong front, even if a front was all it was for now.

When Nikandros did arrive in Ios, he was directed immediately before Kastor to officially convey the deepest sorrows of Delpha for the loss of the King and Prince.

Kastor's eyes slid over him almost dismissively. Nikandros in took the man who would now call himself a King in turn.

Kastor's hair was untouched. That was the first thing about him that Nikandros noticed, even before the laurels secured into that hair. It was held tied simply back with a loop of gold, the tips of the gathered curls still long enough to brush at the back of his neck.

No one mentioned the incongruence of Nikandros's head – shaved for the sake a man who wasn't even his brother by blood – compared with Kastor's full mane kept despite the loss of his _actual_ brother. But no one commented on Kastor's refusal to follow tradition and honour the death of his brother in the usual way. They wouldn't dare. He was King now. He could dispatch any dissenters with a flick of his hand, and Nikandros had no doubt that he _would_ do so, given the slightest provocation. Nikandros knew that he in particular, who Kastor had to know didn't trust or respect him, was probably only a breath away from execution. He had to be _so_ careful.

Nikandros held his tongue for once. It was difficult, but he managed it.

Nikandros had to spend hours at length in Kastor's presence. The tension that built up in his body over that time, in addition to the stress of the last several days, pushed him close to breaking point. So it should have been a relief to finally, late in the evening, be released.

It wasn't entirely, though. The quiet of the empty hallway that loomed in front of him on the way to his guest rooms pressed on him almost as much as Kastor's gaze had. And it didn't help that memories of the many times he'd wandering these halls with Damen at his side assailed him. He thought of dragging Damen – laughing and drunk and leaning most of his not-inconsiderable weight on Nikandros – down this hall. Nikandros had complained about Damen letting himself get so sloppy just because he knew he could rely on Nikandros to make sure he got to his bed intact and without doing anything that would earn his father's wrath in the morning. He'd been _annoyed_. What an idiot Nikandros been then. He would take Damen even in his absolute least responsible moments back in a heartbeat. He would give anything to have that time over again.

Nikandros thought of Damen's lion pin, given to him by his father on that exact night, of which he'd been so amazingly proud.

Had their positions been reversed, Damen wouldn't have held back from fear when it came to something that had mattered to Nikandros. Stupid as it logically might be, Nikandros could do no less himself.

Just one more weakness, Nikandros promised himself. Like the stripping of his hair, his fallen brother deserved this one more thing from him. Then maybe Nikandros could find some small measure of rest, finally.

Though he doubted it.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't actually read this over a second time to fully edit it, because ouch. So feel free to point out any typos or what have you that you might have spotted.


End file.
